


There's a Simon & Garfunkel Song for This

by elvisqueso



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deaf!Will, Fluff, Freeform, M/M, yes they do the do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvisqueso/pseuds/elvisqueso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He does consider: is perceived vulnerability more advantageous, truly, when one is not? Or does the perception have the negative effect of grating, as Will puts it, on the nerves and, therefore, encouraging of reclusivity, as if it would prove a point?</i>
</p><p>  <i>Will is not vulnerable. At least, not in any way one might think on first impressions.</i></p><p>Deaf!Will AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Simon & Garfunkel Song for This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [willymongoo (numbertwelvebakerstreet)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/numbertwelvebakerstreet/gifts).



> This is a commission for [willymongoo](http://willymongoo.tumblr.com/), who asked for a fic with Deaf!Will!
> 
> I only hope I portrayed him as accurately and respectfully as possible
> 
> and that you liked it, of course.

Will Graham began his proper schooling late.

His father, a boat mechanic, followed jobs all over the south and new England before he had enough to pay for one year at a boarding school up to his own standards of reputation and success. If Will is only going to get one year at a deaf school, he declared once to his barber, it’s going to be at a damn good school.

And Will, being damn intelligent on his own, excelled at that school. A single year provided him the means for which he could later attend a university.

His father, long passed by the time he was thirty, would have said him a classic example of the indomitable Grahams. They’re fighters, the Grahams, he’d say, not a blasted thing a body could do to keep a Graham down for long.

You could go back to the very first Graham way out on the Scottish Isles, he would say, and you’d have found him in a cave fighting a bear for a fish – and _winning_.

Will fights harder than he’s probably able to.

Will’s incredible ‘knack for the monsters’ as Jack Crawford calls it, earned him notoriety and infamy. Some bull-shit – in Will’s own words – about the way he thinks leaking into the psychological circles and whispering at Bureau events. Will has the advantage of Beverly Katz, his faithful colleague and interpreter, who indulges him in a sort of shorthand, mocking translation when it’s clear he has no patience for the latest PhD candidate looking to pick his brain.

 

There are times, as now, when Hannibal considers for himself the various things about Will he finds utterly fascinating. Some quiet moment to himself, between clients or perhaps conversations at some gala or benefit he’ll think of whether his fascination is purely curious or more obsessive. He does consider: is perceived vulnerability more advantageous, truly, when one is not? Or does the perception have the negative effect of grating, as Will puts it, on the nerves and, therefore, encouraging of reclusivity, as if it would prove a point?

Will is not vulnerable. At least, not in any way one might think on first impressions.

When it comes down to it, Hannibal often realizes, his intrigue is hinged on the mind of this man, a vocalist in a silent world, visionary of more than the average man. Hannibal fancies, on occasion, that the lack of hearing had focused his ability to see and given him such sight as to see into the minds of others. It’s romantic, in a way. Mildly perverse, if he’s honest, when the thought comes that there is much he could do with a mind like that when some things said might never be heard or known.

Will is beautiful. Not innocent, nor naïve, but undeniably beautiful.

 

Cued speech is magnificently simple. Nothing difficult, reminiscent of Hannibal’s lessons in Kanji as a young man. Will and Beverly are proficient enough to teach him, much to Will’s own relief. He’s frustrated enough trying to read Hannibal’s lips and, although he’s amused by it, the difficulty of signing correctly and coherently is something of a barrier they acknowledge should be bypassed as soon as possible.

Will prefers their conversing in cued speech. He’s adamant about it, sometimes indignant. For two weeks he allows no different communication. No writing notes, nor attempted signing. His own voice is a curious kind of lilting American, formed in the back of his throat. Regardless, he’s critical of Hannibal’s accent often enough.

‘Can you _please_ ,’ he says, hand making quick signals and gestures near his mouth and neck. Combinations of the same eight movements, ‘learn to enunciate?’

“Considering English is my fourth language,” Hannibal replies, “I’d say I’m doing well enough.”

‘Fourth?’

“Fourth.”

In an instant, the usual contemptuous expression changes into genuine interest. Will’s hand moves fluidly at his mouth and neck, accompanied by his lilting speech. His voice is quiet, as if he is stunned by the force of vibration in his own throat.

‘Say something in another language.’ He cues.

“What?” Hannibal forgets to cue this, but Will answers him anyway.

‘It doesn’t have to be perfect,’ he explains, ‘just get as close as you can.’

“ _Draugas._ ” Hannibal carefully cues this, hoping it’s clear enough. Will watches his mouth and hands, then mimics him.

‘ _Draugas_.’ The word rolls from deep within Will’s throat and over his tongue. It’s not the best pronunciation, admittedly, but Hannibal doesn’t really care. He’s trying to stop a grin from spreading into a full on smile.

‘What does that mean?’ Will’s eyes are blue and shine almost like polished stone/

Hannibal alternately locks his index fingers: the sign for ‘friend.’ Will has a smile to match his own and signs the same.

‘ _Draugas_. It’s beautiful.’

 

The call from Jack comes at six in the morning. Will had been found wandering, asleep, some four or five miles from his home, one of his dogs his only companion. It had taken some time for the officers to communicate – unused they were to relying on something other than words. He had them call Beverly to talk for him, later explaining that he hadn’t the patience for the situation at the time.

Jack calls at six in the morning and Hannibal is to meet Will twice a week now. Not that he’s complaining, of course. Will might be, as he’s complained already of the lack of time. He has papers to grade, he texts Hannibal, tests to write and lesson plans, not to mention the cases. I’ll collapse of work exhaustion before I have the chance to lose my mind.

For this, Hannibal amends the nature of their conversations. It’s almost reminiscent of the study groups in his university days; the soft sound of pencil and pen on paper, the flipping of pages. The warmth of Will’s presence and their light back-and-forth note passing, if that’s what’s most convenient that evening. Two glasses of wine on the shared space of the side table which they had pushed up against the desk.

 

It’s unclear to Hannibal the exact moment at which he first loved Will Graham.

The strongest memory, which he keeps in a room forefront in the Hall of memories – the door a replication of the archway of St. Paul’s Cathedral – is that when he had been preparing some dessert at the end of a long day. The chosen piece of the evening had been Bach, and he was enjoying his evening in.

Will had arrived with little more than a text of preamble. Hannibal had left the music playing, knowing that Will would not be able to hear it but desiring to finish the record for his own benefit, and invited Will to sit at the dining table.

He had returned to find Will with his hand against one of the speakers in the room, allowing the vibrations to course through his hand. A small smile grew on Will’s face, the light from the candles and off the deep green of the walls left a kind of magic glow in his face and, for a single glorious moment, Hannibal was completely, devastatingly in love.

Hannibal remembers a later time he loved Will Graham more precisely.

“I would hope you would stay for the party.” He had been busy, preparing with several assistants for a dinner party. The sous chefs meticulous and professional and, most importantly, silent in his kitchen. For a few minutes, Hannibal could ignore their presence and focus his attentions on Will and the food.

Holding in one hand a bottle of gift-worthy wine and cueing apologetically with the other, he explained ‘I’m not really good at this sort of thing. Besides, I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.’ As he placed the gleaming bottle on the kitchen island and signed ‘enjoy the wine,’ a curious sensation welled up in Hannibal’s chest. Something tight, and a bit painful, which receded to an empty kind of ache as Hannibal watched Will’s back retreating from him.

“Come back.” He remembers saying.

Of course, Will never did come back that evening. And the ache persisted throughout the dinner and into the early hours of the morning.

It was then he knew for certain that the moments where he loved Will Graham were no longer separate moments. That the love was a constant, vivid thing in the back of his mind like grey noise.

 

Hannibal is aware of Will; Will standing by the fireplace, Will moving along the carpet and hardwood as silently as a ghost, Will casually touching his shoulder and leaning, looking at what renders in graphite under Hannibal’s fingertips. The wine glass in his hand emits soft melodic notes when he taps it. Vibrations at a perfect 440 hertz, a tuning A. Something, perhaps, as pleasing to the touch as it is to the ear.

Will’s lips curl pleasantly over the rim of the wine glass, staining purple. Hannibal considers how appropriate it would be for him to take the glass from Will’s lips and taste the wine there. Not very, he supposes. Despite all else, professional time is still to be kept professional.

Will gently taps his shoulder, calling his attentions, and signs:

‘Is that us?’

The drawing is a rendering of the Death of Patroclus. The specter of Death looms over the figures of Achilles, prostrate in grief, and Patroclus, cold and still. Their faces are Will’s and Hannibal’s likenesses. Hannibal taps the end of his pencil on the desk.

“Yes and no.” He answers.

Will snorts, and makes a sign Hannibal is certain means ‘bull-headed’ and returns to the fireplace.

 

Now, a difficult question: when one has love, what does one do with it?

One, Hannibal presumes, would declare it and allow whoever the object of such desire is to ‘take it or leave it’ as it were. Therein lies the risk of leaving, which, were Hannibal a weaker man, might’ve doomed him to some brand of permanent despair. He knows he is not a weaker man, and yet he dwells on this scenario far more than he knows is appropriate.

For this reason, he finds the sudden impulsive decision to take the hand resting on his harpsichord and brush his lips over the knuckles to be as alarming to himself as it must be to his companion. One moment, Hannibal is playing a variation on a Mazurka with Will simply enjoying the vibrations from the harpsichord’s polished cherry wood body through the palm of his hand. The next, they are all too aware of each other, sharing the longest sustained eye-contact Hannibal thinks Will has ever allowed anybody to have with him.

Here be danger, Dr. Lecter.

Hannibal is distantly aware of the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock in his study. He counts, ten seconds, twenty, twenty-five. Will neither advances nor retreats but the expression on his face changes slowly from mild shock to a genuine kind of amused delight.

They said the Devil would be attractive.

Will sets his wine unceremoniously on the cherry wood of the harpsichord. He leaves his other hand in Hannibal’s grasp.

‘Took you long enough, Romeo.’ He cues. He pulls Hannibal’s hand to his lips and presses them there. Three seconds of warmth and then a soft smacking sound.

“It’s funny,” Hannibal says, “you forget how to be romantic when it’s most necessary to be so.”

‘I did enjoy watching you go about like a schoolboy with a crush.’

Will sits down on the small bench, letting their bodies press together from shoulder to knee. He kisses Hannibal’s cheek, as naturally as if they’d been doing this for years. ‘So: are you going to wine and dine me tonight, or not?’ he cues. Hannibal is aware of a grin spreading over his face.

“Thoroughly.” He says.

And ‘wine and dine’ Will he does; casually, and in his own home. Will watches him prepare a couple of beef medallions, an inch and a half thick each, with garlic and bourbon and a combination of lightly steamed vegetables selected mostly for color. There’s a Barolo in his stores that he’d been saving for a special occasion such as this.

Will makes a gesture Hannibal understands to mean ‘show off’ as he takes his glass and they sit at the kitchen island with their plates of red stock broker meat and let the night unfold as it may.

And the night decides to unfold in increments, from being pressed into the kitchen counter, to the intoxicated stumbling down the hall, up the stairs, and into Hannibal’s bedroom with it’s cool greens and Chinese modernism.

Will, never one to hold back an opinion and never one to spare his favorites of his wit, signs something to the approximation of ‘it’s like you’ve taken bits of the World and grafted them into your house like an architectural Frankenstein.’

Hannibal signs back, in his limited fashion, that if Will had- had the opportunity to take some of China home with him, he might have done so as well.

‘I’m going to ask you to stop using words for the next twenty or so minutes.’ Will signs.

This is a surprisingly easy request to fulfill.

Somewhere underneath the thick haze of infatuation and arousal, Hannibal wonders if, were he only allowed the sensation of touch, taste and smell, could he be satisfied? Perhaps, if he had never experience the sight of Will under him, or the sound of his moans, unrestrained and genuine against his skin. No, Hannibal thinks in the back of his mind, having this and losing it would be a punishment more cruel than any other.

Will’s fingers dig into the flesh of Hannibal’s back, leaving white and red marks. His face is pressed into Hannibal’s neck, his cheek sliding on their mingling sweat as Hannibal hits his prostate again, and again, and again.

When he’s close, Hannibal pulls back and presses their foreheads together. Their pupils are so dilated all that can be really seen is the blur of color in the other’s eyes. Hannibal strokes Will until they both come, looking into those ever-changing black depths, focusing and un-focusing as they each go still and then relax. Hannibal can see the silvery specks in Will’s irises and can’t help but grin.

 

Will’s dogs are not service dogs. Each and every one was found, on chance, by Will in some way or another. Here, a dog met on a traipse to Ohio, some mange still healing in his fur. Another, this time a pup given to him as a gift from a mutt litter. This one Will found hiding under a collapsed tool shed near a crime scene. These dogs have learned quickly that barking does nothing to gain the attention of their master, and so, remarkably, they have adapted to a quiet existence, politely pawing or nuzzling Will’s leg when in need of food or anything else.

Even when the walls of Will’s foyer echo with the gasps and groans of Hannibal’s occasional night there, the dogs are untroubled. It’s something Hannibal always remembers to thank them for with special homemade sausages when he can.

‘You’re spoiling them, you know.’ Will tells him, cueing from the porch as Hannibal arrives one evening to the pack of them gathering about him. Even as he takes the links from his brown paper bag, he can see Will shaking his head, like a parent who disproves of the other giving the children candy before dinner. He signs: ‘Absolutely spoiled.’

“I think they can do with a little spoiling now and again,” Hannibal cues back. He wraps his arms around Will’s waist and kisses him. “So could you.”

Will puts on his best stern teacher face. ‘We’ve talked about this.’ He cues.

“I know.”

‘If you give me any more little gifts, I’m going to run out of room in here pretty quick.’

“I’ve thought of that. Do you really underestimate me so badly?”

Hannibal pulls a small wrapped box from his coat pocket. Will takes it with a playfully suspicious glance and opens it.

There’s a Ghirardelli chocolatier in Baltimore specializing in artisan gift truffles. In the box are four, each with a delicate drizzle design and a special filling. Will takes one, gently, between his thumb and middle finger. His mouth makes an ‘o’ shape and he looks at Hannibal as if he’s just bought him the moon.

“Well, go on. Try it.” Hannibal urges.

Will lets his eyes flutter shut and he holds the truffle under his nose. Slowly, he pushes the chocolate past his lips and onto his tongue. His eyes open and their almost glazed over.

‘Delicious.’ He signs, a gesture with his thumb and finger snapping away from his mouth. ‘You should have a taste.’

And how could Hannibal refuse?

He licks at a small smudge of chocolate on the corner of Will’s mouth. He mimics the snapping gesture.

“Delicious.” He says.

The evening tastes like dark chocolate and caramel. Some hint of raspberries and honey. They sit on the couch in Will’s den, making love lazily in the dimming sunlight.

It’s the sort of evening that blurs together into itself, leaving an impression of time rather than the knowledge of it. One might remember colors, shapes, sensations. Hannibal will remember the feel of Will’s back muscles coiling beneath his skin as arches against Hannibal’s chest and the purple marks Will leaves on his neck. He’ll remember the pressing of wet curls against his nose and the smell of dog and sugar and Will.

Will encourages anything that makes Hannibal vocal. He explains, one day, that he likes to feel Hannibal’s voice as it vibrates through his chest and neck. It’s not too different than the way he enjoys music. It’s vibration, he cues, and it’s beautiful.

They spend the night on the couch and Will lays on Hannibal’s chest, enjoying the rise and fall of his breathing. In the morning, the light wakes them and the ache in their limbs makes them slow to start.

 

It’s probably cruel – it most definitely is – to force sound upon a man who has never experienced it before. Hannibal’s phone lights up in the night with persistence.

Auditory hallucinations; what a curious thing for a deaf man to have.

His hands shake when he signs, as bad as stuttering for him and telling of some deeper problem. He can’t begin to describe the sounds that plague his mind, and Hannibal can only offer sympathy, comfort, and consider the possibilities.

Fear is beautiful on Will Graham. It wakes him in the middle of the night gasping for air, his grip on Hannibal’s arm bruising. His nightmares can no longer be blocked out by simply shutting his eyes. They can nest in that part of his brain that doesn’t recognize his deafness, and scream.

Confusion and fear make a lovely look for Will. It’s almost worth letting his mind combust within his skull to watch it.

The MRI results return within a day, Hannibal having called some favors from an old colleague. He watches Will pace the length of his study, the manila envelope in hand, flipping through each image and page of tired medical jargon.

He writes on a pad of paper at Hannibal’s desk, supposedly too moody to cue or bother will Hannibal’s limited sign language, ‘So, my mind’s on fire.’

Hannibal only nods. There isn’t much else to say. Will writes again: ‘Cost?’

“Your insurance should be able to cover it.” Hannibal replies, “But it will take time.” The pen makes _skritch-_ ing noises against the paper.

‘That seems to be what everyone wants from me these days.’ He writes again, ‘That and my brain.’

“I’ll settle for the occasional text, if that’s true.” The words are past Hannibal’s lips before he realizes he’s said them.

Will’s eyebrows shoot up and a sad sort of grin pulls his lip back. He cues, soundlessly this time.

‘I prefer our talks.’

“I’m glad.”

Will sets the paper and pen off to the side. He gestures near his mouth: ‘ _Draugas?_ ’

“ _Širdelė._ ” The cues aren’t sufficient, he knows, but he makes a point to over-enunciate. Will taps the paper and Hannibal writes the word out in perfect copperplate.

‘ _Širdelė._ ’ Will says, slowly and quiet, and it’s the most beautiful thing Hannibal has ever heard.

Hannibal writes the English underneath.

‘ _Širdelė._ ’ Will presses the knuckles of his fists together over his heart and makes a pulsing motion with his thumbs. It’s the sign for ‘sweetheart.’

“ _Širdelė._ ” Hannibal murmurs, his lips pressed to Will’s curls and the heat of his fever. Will stands and lets himself be held, pressing so close that their heartbeats can be felt through their skin.

Will stays with Hannibal for the night. His excuse is a long drive and the late hour. Hannibal doesn’t tease him this time.

They don’t make love that night – whoever would be in the mood to? – but Will drifts off to Hannibal gently twisting his curls around his fingers and humming. Hannibal watches the flicking eyelids, flushed cheeks. He presses a kiss to Will’s curls, breathing him in. The fevered sweetness fills his nose, and Hannibal considers.

**Author's Note:**

> Learn more about cued speech [here](http://www.cuedspeech.org/)!
> 
>  
> 
> _Comments and constructed criticisms are, as always, welcomed and encouraged._
> 
> [Commissions page](http://elvisqueso.tumblr.com/commissions)


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